Oculesics
by Hallowed Hunter
Summary: Sherlock is rational. But when the gaze of Watson is enough to tumble him out of his logical state, he must reassemble the pieces of his mind to determine if the great detective can indeed love. Told from both Sherlock's mind and the knowledge of an outsider. Johnlock ONE SHOT.


The world is a constant swarm of facts, information, ideas, and predictability. With every second of brain activity, he can predict that the tracksuit-clad girl pacing outside of his flat will trip to catch the attention of the bodybuilder with a narcissist complex and an alarming history of alcoholism. The bodybuilder's blood alcohol level is above the average amount, which isn't an uncommon occurrence since 3.3 million deaths in 2012 were due to alcohol consumption. This fact is indeed relevant and holds place in his mind palace since the last "murder" he solved was statistically obvious from the moment he stepped foot in the apartment and saw the scratches on the dustpan from sweeping away broken bottles. Sherlock is sure that the bodybuilder will one day be the body on the slab, predictable in his mannerisms until the last drop.

How dull people are, and how must his tsunami of thought pass its time within the quiet, closed walls of Baker Street. Perhaps he should read Einstein's theory of relativity and dream about when time itself did not exist, for before the Big Bang, Sherlock would be free to roam in his own mind palace forever. Speaking of Einstein, Sherlock thinks of the book lying on the coffee table, untouched ever since John gave it to him for Christmas. He had written on the cover "from one sodding genius to another". Sherlock attempted to appreciate the humor, but he quite despised the social conventions of gift giving, and attempted to teach his trades of intellect as a form of a present, but John would have none of that.

And as Sherlock is pondering the meaning of human social conventions, it is John himself who walks into their flat, causing a slight _jolt_ from the couch where Sherlock is laying, limbs stretched out like a tiger ready to skulk about the jungle. Sherlock enters his mind palace, wondering exactly what the footprint of a tiger looks like because _damn it,_ he's so _bored_, when he feels a shadow fall upon his face, and he is looking into the eyes of John.

Sherlock flushes, which is merely the common phenomenon of normal blood flow, of course. But then something peculiar happens. Something quite new. Something unpredictable.

Everything.

Stops.

As he stares into the warmth and concern in the eyes of John Watson, he barely registers his body slacking, his jittering and twitching hands relaxing, and his whirlwind of a mind swirling. To. A. Stop. Until the only thought on his mind is not the probability of murderers being women or the exact hue of tobacco ash, but John.

John. John. John.

This is how they must all feel, the _normal_ people. Minds preoccupied with one idea and one object only. As much as Sherlock would love to scorn these simpletons, he is enraptured with the idea of peace and a clear mind.

When he looks at John, he forgets that his mind is a curse, that he rarely gets a moment of quiet, a moment of complete serenity. He forgets that in the greatness that is his brain there lies a quaking ache in the walls and a deep chill that pervades all. All he feels is the warmth of John's concern blending into his own being, dispelling the barriers Sherlock has built over his own mind.

Everything is just John. The smell of his cable-knit sweaters that cause a slight shock when they are touched, the smell of Earl Grey on his breath, the cock of his brow when concerned, the sweet smile he gives when he thinks no one is looking, the skip in his step after he helps solve a crime, the smooth rhythm of his typing on his computer, the sarcastic jabs he writes in his blog post, the touch of his warm hands, the deep worry that encompasses his entire being, the earnest nature he has to acquire knowledge, the ridiculous nature of his blog, the practically tangible loyalty, the way that Sherlock's name seems to fit perfectly with Watson's.

And suddenly, John is in Sherlock's mind, his inner sanctum, causing the normal disturbed state of his head to settle into a silent hush. The catalogue of books, facts, experiments that was laid out before Sherlock's mind is swept away by just _John_. Sherlock feels an odd lightness in his stomach. It is then that Sherlock feels a sentiment that causes him fear, so much fear that he pushes John away, pulling his eyes away from him.

He felt happy, and happiness is not to be allowed in a mind that is focused solely on logic. Happiness is irrational and that is not allowed in his own mind. To be happy is to resign oneself to completion, and Sherlock never desires such. Happiness will only bring unbearable sadness to him—this is the great irony of his soul. Sherlock can dimly hear John's "Sherlock, are you there? Sherlock! Hello? I'm talking to you", but the detective is too wrapped up in rejecting the sentiments he has driven away all his life. No, he cannot subject himself to the whims of affection, or else he will be so dreadfully mortal. When one strives for greatness, the greatest hamartia is mortality. Sherlock will not be so foolish. Sherlock will not allow John Watson and the idea of warm lips on his cold ones pull him away from the palace he has built in his mind.

There is no balancing rationality, probability, and intellect with whatever _this _was. Sherlock won't give it a name, won't give it power over himself. He is merely a brain, and to lose that inner chaos would be to lose himself.

That peace he felt was merely the side effects of Oculesics, basic human eye contact and biology. As it naturally functions, the heart rate can slow when subjected to human contact. It is not a reflection at all of the mind, just mere submission of the body to pheromones. Whatever has just occurred can be explained with rationality, logic, and science. There is no softness to Sherlock, only science. As always.

But Sherlock is lying to himself.

As a man who prides himself on understanding the human nature and how it functions, he is blind to the fact that the great detective himself is just as predictable as the laypeople. This, Sherlock will never realize, because to let himself become "common", or to let himself love would be his own demise.

He resides in his mind palace, where he is safe from the true influences of emotions, and busies himself with moving from John's hair-to-hair follicles to biology to the cold world of facts. The solidarity of his mind palace is—in his head—his salvation. He has built an impenetrable fortress, and yet John Watson is knocking at the door.

So Sherlock recedes into his palace; he forces the sweet sound of John's voice, the curve of his lip, the warmth of his heart away from his iron cage of a head, and he settles into the monotony of categorizing elements from the periodic table purely by hue.

Calcium-White when crystallized.

Copper—Russet color in its solid metallic form… He is lost in his palace. He relinquishes the opportunity to wake up in the morning curled around a small figure whose heart swells with love and affection. To plant a kiss on the forehead of his "blogger" only to be reciprocated with a hug. In his palace, he does not see that John has laid himself in front of Sherlock, brimming with a desire to patch up the holes that still exist in Sherlock. His wounds could be kissed to feel better. But they don't.

He lets go of the one shred of peace, of happiness, of love that he will ever feel, and lets his chance of having all of John go. This is the true curse of intellect. Great minds cannot love, and Sherlock has lost the chance to refute such. He is oblivious to the love in his flatmate's eyes, the concern in his soul, the undying love that will never be reciprocated.

He is sure he made the right decision, for when John walks out of 221B, he is sure that he feels no weight sinking in his chest. The greatest scientists are never recounted because of their hearts. He has never felt for this man, a man who is merely a blip in the radar of a great mind.

That moment? It was all biology, and nothing else.

So, Sherlock retreats to the mental fortress—a prison—that is his mind, locks the door, and throws away the key.


End file.
